


Let your colours bleed

by nightimedreamer



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Art School, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, And a lot of Cliché tropes smashed together, Baz helps Simon find his Art™, Baz's soul is blue, Dancing, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, Not-so-slow burn, Painting, Poetry/Literature, Sculpture, Serenading, Simon Snow is an oblivious bean, Simon's soul is yellow, Singing, Theatre, Watford Eighth Year, Watford Secondary School of Arts, character injury, just endless fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:13:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26169994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightimedreamer/pseuds/nightimedreamer
Summary: "Art is the shortest way to someone's soul."Simon is thinking about dropping out of art school.He feels like a faint light among the many stars in Watford—even though Simon loves art with all his heart, nothing he creates seems to live and breathe, or stretch from his soul to Touch someone else.People think Basilton Pitch is a prodigy. The truth, however, is that Baz's immersion in the arts has more to do with the fact that they're his only solace. Everything else is hopeless: Baz feels no Longing, no pull towards any kind of Art—he only ever Longs for Simon Snow.When an accident brings them together, Simon and Baz realise that relying on each other isn't the end of the world—actually, it might be the beginning of something else...
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 7
Kudos: 54
Collections: Carry On Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! I'm thrilled to post my fic for the Carry On Big Bang, at long last: a soulmates + Art school AU, filled with all the love I could put into it. 
> 
> This work is a love letter to creators—to all the people who let others glimpse into their souls through their writing, through their art, through their creativity. It takes a lot of courage to put so much of yourselves out there. 💕💕💕
> 
> Special thanks: to my artist, [cactus-pop](http://cactus-pop.tumblr.com) on Tumblr, for creating an [amazing companion piece](https://carry-on-big-bang.tumblr.com/post/628007659100143617/let-your-colors-bleed) for this fic. To [adamarks](http://adamarks.tumblr.com), for being an incredible beta (and for putting up with my constant insecurity) (you're a saint, Jay). To [merisalright](http://merisalright.tumblr.com), for her enthusiasm about this (which basically fueled me for the past months) and also for being so encouraging during the whole process.  
> Finally, thanks to [sharing-a-room-with-an-open-fire](http://sharing-a-room-with-an-open-fire.tumblr.com), the first person who made me feel included in this fandom, and the first person to look over this fic. It's changed a lot since then, thanks to you! 💞
> 
> So, buckle up, everyone. I hope you all enjoy this heart spill:

_Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven's sake._ _—Kurt Vonnegut_

**Simon**

I've spent the last twenty minutes staring at the gates, and they're staring back at me. Disappointedly, by the way.

It's not that I don't want to enter—it's just that, once I do, I'll have to _leave_. Eventually. 

I sigh. The day is getting hotter, I spent hours traveling, and I'm hungry. I've already lost too much time. 

So I cross the gates, looking up as I pass—there's an inscription on the crossbar; I can't read it with the sun shining down on my eyes, but I know the saying by heart. 

_“Art is the bridge your soul crosses to reach mine,_ ” it says. 

(Which is so typically dramatic it used to make me smile.) 

_It's not all about soulmates,_ they will say. Every year, there's a seminar for the new students on the importance of Art to our souls, a whole speech about how this is so much more than the Universe playing matchmaker. We _need_ Art just like we need air or love or acceptance. In fact, most people agree that Art is the way to at least two out of those three things. 

And here… Well. 

Watford is one of those places where the world seems brighter even on cloudy days. It's the kind of place where things begin.

The colours here are more vivid— _soul-bright_ , literally. Here, you can practically feel Art flowing through your limbs. You can see it in the way these people move, in the stroke of a brush over canvas, and in their voice carried by the wind. In the poetry written on the walls, in the dance, in the _liveliness_. 

You can see it cracking through their skin, glowing just below the surface.

Art is everywhere in the world. It works just like gravity, making the planet spin and bringing out the colours in our souls. But Watford is the heart—here, you can feel it _thrumming_.

After all, Art _is_ what connects us in the deepest levels. The Touch—capital T and all—is what happens when a soul reaches to another through creativity, like when you listen to a song and you relate so much to it you could cry. Or when you spend hours looking at a drawing, finding new details to love every time. 

Every bit of Art, every creation, every performance—you don't have to do it well. You just have to put feeling into it. A little piece of your own soul.

That's what makes it possible for soulmates to feel each other: in baring yourselves so completely as Art requires, your souls Touch for a moment.

Or at least that's what everyone says. 

I can't point out when it started, but what I know is that my art has been feeling... weary. Plain. No matter how much I try to change and fix it, no matter the new concepts and styles I try, it's like everything I create is empty. 

Sometimes I fear that I lost my Art. 

Or worse: maybe I never found it at all. 

Because things don't work for me like they seem to work for everyone else. My Art isn’t like theirs; it's not alive, at least not when I'm trying to conceive it, and it comes from my mind, not from the depths of my soul or whatever. 

And besides, I don't think I can Touch _anyone_. Least of all my soulmate. I've been Touched before, but I don't know if I can put enough of my soul into something in order to do it. 

Which means that, well… I'll probably never recognize them. I'll meet my soulmate, that's for sure, but even then it's improbable that they'll know it's _me._

And if I'm being honest with myself, it makes me feel a bit hopeless. 

*******

Miss Possibelf's office looks exactly the same as it did the last time I was here. 

"It's good to have you back, Simon." Her voice tickles my ears as I enter, on the verge between soothing and uncomfortable.

"It's good to be back, Miss," I say, taking the chair in front of her desk. I look around, fidgeting a bit. (I have a vague idea of why she's called me here, and it’s making me nervous.) 

"I hope you had a good summer, Mr. Snow," she says, smiling warmly. "Is there anything you'd like to talk about?" 

I'm tapping on my leg, trying to fix my gaze anywhere but her face. Miss Possibelf has a super-sense of empathy: she can usually tell when someone feels distressed, and is extremely compassionate about it. Especially among her students. 

Which is why I called her a week before classes started to say that maybe I wouldn't be able to come back this term. 

I didn't want to say I was going to give up on school, but I also didn't want to lie to her. So I just sat there for an hour while Miss Possibelf spoke to me, trying to help me calm down. 

Now, though, I can't even meet her eyes. 

What do you say to your headmistress after almost dropping out of school? 

"It was pretty normal, actually," is what I go with. _Crushing self-doubt and questioning aside, of course._ "I'm feeling better, now. I've used these past days to… sort some things." 

"I'm glad to hear it." She nods. "Now, I believe you're ready to start this term with refreshed creativity." 

"Yeah. Right." I nod. "So, uh. Is that all, or…?" I gesture vaguely over my shoulder, towards the door. 

"Actually, there's something else I wanted to talk about," Miss Possibelf says, opening a drawer and rummaging through it. She picks something up, then stares at me for a moment. "Simon, you know I'm here all the time, right? Whenever you need to talk, about _anything_ , be it your studies or personal things, well… you can always come to me."

I swallow under her serious gaze. "Right. I know. Thank you, Miss Possibelf, for everything." 

A soft smile tugs at her lips. "The future before you is a brilliant one, Simon. Don't you ever forget that." 

I give her a last short nod, throwing my backpack over one shoulder. Then, as I start getting up, she calls me again. "One last thing." 

I approach her, frowning at the hand she's holding out. I take it tentatively, and she presses something cool and metallic to my palm. "I couldn't forget this." 

I look dumbfoundedly at the pair of keys in my hand. 

One is the key to the only room on the sixth floor of the Mummer's House. 

The other opens a room on the bottom floor. 

"… What?" 

"I hope you like your new room, Mr. Snow."

  
  


*******

  
  


I can't believe. 

After all these years. 

Things start feeling wrong the moment I step into the old room: the windows are open and there's a breeze circulating, bringing different scents from outside, but something's missing. Something important.

I don't catch the woodsy scent of cedar. Not even a hint of bergamot. 

I go into the en suite: the cabinets are empty; there's nothing on the sink. Nothing. 

_Of course_ , I think, rolling eyes at myself. Classes started yesterday, Baz probably got here before and has already moved into our new room. 

My heart squeezes a little as I tear my posters from the wall. They gave me a big box to put my things in, but there isn't much, really. Freddie Mercury seems lonely there, beside Van Gogh's Starry Night (both were gifts from Penny). 

I tell myself that this is not _homesickness_ , what I'm feeling. I'm here, after all; you can't miss a place you're in. Anyway, I don't know what I'm complaining about—it's just a room.

(Even if it's the best room in the dorm. It's large enough to fit two desks, beside the beds, and has its own en suite. I guess I'm really going to miss this part.) 

I sigh. Our routine will have to change a little, but I'm sure it will be fine. I'm fine.

Though, I'm not so sure _Baz_ thinks the same. I burst into laughter imagining his face when he found out— _that's_ something I'd have liked to see. He probably had a fit. 

I look around, inspecting the room for anything I might be forgetting. I open the desk drawers and look inside the closet. Nothing. I just need to check… 

I kneel down to look under my bed and there it is. A shoebox. My breath hitches and my wrist prickles when I reach for it. I had completely forgotten about this thing. 

I'm about to open it when I hear steps outside the room—someone storming up the stairs. 

I toss it into the box with the rest of my things and hold my breath. For a moment, I almost expect Baz to burst through the door, fuming. An image of his face pops into my mind instantly: beautiful lines contorted into a snarl, pointing a finger to my face and demanding to know _what the fuck_ did I to make us lose the tower room. 

But it isn't Baz. Instead, Penelope barges into the room.

We stare at each other for a split second, my mouth hanging open and her eyes wide behind the large glasses. 

For a moment, I think she's going to throw her arms around me, but Penny isn't one for hellos, just as she isn't one for good-byes. 

Instead, she just crosses her arms and scans me critically, but I can see a hint of a smile on her lips. 

"You're back," She nods approvingly, almost like Miss Possibelf.

"I guess so," I shrug, scratching the back of my head. "There wasn't much choice. I wanted to spare you the effort of dragging me all the way from London." 

The smile slips from her face, and she looks at me seriously. "You didn't pick up my calls since Saturday. I was _this close_ to going there—"

And I hug her. I know she would have done that. Like, _really_. And it's comforting, so I want to comfort her back. 

"I'm here now, alright? Just like I promised," I mutter against her head. Then I take a step back to look at her more carefully. " _Hey_. Your hair is still purple!" 

"Of course it is, Simon. It grows this colour now." She rolls her eyes, poking at my chest playfully. Then, she pokes at my ribs, scrunching her nose when I yelp and take a step back. "And now we need to feed you." 

I huff and nod, my stomach starting to hurt. It's well past lunchtime now. 

Penny starts walking out of the room, and I follow her, grabbing my backpack and the box. It's only then she notices the stuff, and she frowns.

"What are you doing with all this stuff, anyway?" 

"I'm, uh… moving to another room," I say. "They moved us to the first floor." 

"Oh. Right." Penny nods. Then she frowns. "Just leave this here. You can come back later to grab it." 

"Alright, uh." I set it down, noticing the way she's looking at me. "What?" 

"It's nothing, but…" she shrugs, nonchalantly. "Someone is back." 

  
  


*******

  
  


We're on the way to the dining hall when someone runs into me, bumping hard at my shoulder. 

" _Hey_ —" I turn, annoyed, my fists clenching in reflex, only to be greeted by a mile-wide smile. The tension melts into amusement instantly, and an incredulous laugh falls out of my mouth. " _Shep_!" 

Shepard stands before me with open arms and the widest smile you've ever seen. I shove at him in retaliation, laughing, and then he pulls me into a tight hug. 

"Good to see you, Snow," he says, patting my shoulder and adjusting his glasses. 

"You're kidding me, right?" I can't stop grinning. " _You_ are here. How are you _here_?" 

"Internship program," he laughs, excitedly. "It's incredible. I wanted to take a gap year, right, to work on a project I had in mind, and of course there's no place better than this to begin; so I heard about the internship and thought—" 

"Yeah, we got it, a little experience wouldn't kill you, so it's a double win, etcetera and all," Penny cuts in, impatiently. She's probably heard it five hundred times already. "Everyone's got it, okay?"

Shepard's smile grows impossibly wider. "Well, yeah, that part is cool and all, _but—"_ he wriggles his eyebrows at Penny, "—besides everything, my muse is right here."

" _Please_ , spare me," she scoffs, walking ahead of us. "I don't want to be sick before lunch." 

"Ouch," Shepard mumbles under his breath as we follow her. Then, he turns to me with a lopsided smile, shoving lightly at my shoulder. "So, how are you doing, Simon? Excited for your last year?" 

"I, er…" I try to smile, but it probably looks like I'm having a stroke. "Excited is a strong word, but... yeah, I'm going to carry on." 

"Great." He nods, looking pensive. For a moment, I think Shepard's going to say something else, but he just looks over my shoulder and points. "Hey, isn't that…?" 

My heart stutters as I turn to look. To be honest with myself, I admit I'm expecting to see long black hair, steel eyes and sharp eyebrows. I should've known my peace wouldn't last— 

Except it's not him. Instead, I find brown butter eyes and light hair, rosy cheeks. I feel something like disappointment. 

Agatha's hand barely lifts, but I think she's making an effort to wave at me. I give her a half-hearted smile, then keep walking. 

"Agatha, yeah," I say, my voice blank. "We aren't together anymore. But, like, things are fine, I think. We just don't talk much." 

Shep nods, but doesn't say anything, for once. 

"Hey, have you seen Baz already?" I ask when the silence stretches for too long.

"Baz?" His brow furrows. 

"My roommate." 

"Oh, no, I know who it is." He flashes me that awkward smile again. "One just doesn't forget someone like Baz Pitch. I meant _why_ you're asking about him." 

"Huh, because he's my roommate?" I say, shrugging. "And he's probably going to murder me, so…" 

"Well, actually, I think you don't need to worry about that anymore, Simon." Shepard says, averting his gaze. 

I freeze in place. "What? Why?" 

Shepard shoots me this weird look, like he's weighing the situation. I know what it is before the words leave his mouth. 

"Baz isn't here, Simon," he says, seriously. "Someone heard Miss Possibelf talking to his parents. They think he probably won't be coming back... soon." 

Again, I can't believe it. 

After _all these years._

  
  


*******

At the end of the day, it's just me and the empty room. 

Not so empty anymore, I guess. My things are stuffed in one corner—it's not a mess, but this room is so small that it seems like it. 

Still, it _feels_ empty. I grit my teeth. It makes no sense to me at all. My eyes keep flicking over to the empty bed, and it _stays_ empty. Obviously, because Baz can't suddenly materialize here from thin air. 

Everything just feels wrong. The room is too narrow, there's only one desk between the beds, the windows are open. 

And there's no one here to complain about it. 

I sigh. It's usually easy for me to avoid thinking, but not today, apparently. Today, my mind drifts away while I open the box to start organizing my belongings.

I don't bother unpacking all my clothes; instead, I just take the uniform out and leave it ready for tomorrow. Then, my posters go up on the wall. I expect it to warm up the room a little, but the effect is quite the opposite: now, it stands out how I'm all over this place, and he's nowhere in sight. 

Finally, I let myself fall onto the bed. I know I won't be able to sleep soon, though; there's this nervous energy charging me. Now, at least, I can spend a sleepless night staring at the Starry Night, instead of a bare wall. 

Sometimes I think it's funny how this became one of van Gogh's most famous paintings. Because he considered it a failure: as a man whose paintings were usually based on what he could see, the Starry Night's conception was entirely different. 

These are abstractions. And that's why I love it so much: The Starry Night was created from his memory and astonishment, the gaps filled not by anything the real sight could provide, but by imagination. The swirling sky, the cypresses and the stars that are way too big all came from somewhere deep within his soul. 

Still, he didn't like it. It made him bitter of that attempt. 

Still, it Touched people from all over the world. 

What enchants them is the dreaminess, the wonder of it. What enchants _me_ is the fact that even a failure of his was full of soul. 

(It gives me hope that maybe mine are, too. Even the plainest ones.) 

Besides, it evokes a feeling of familiarity I can't explain. A vague memory of something that feels like home. 

There's something about the deep blues and the lighter, softer blues swirling together that makes my chest squeeze. It gets me every time. It isn't quite like Longing, but still familiar in some way

I let my mind wander, gaze settling on the other side of the room again. Maybe I can see the sky from that angle.

I tell myself Baz won't care, because he isn't here. And he doesn't need to know. Besides, it's not like this is _his_ bed, at least not yet; it doesn't have either his sheets or his scent. 

Still, I can only see the car park. Doesn't matter. 

Baz will be back in a couple of days. I'm sure of it, I can feel it in my bones. 

But for now, I stay where I am. In the bed that isn't his yet. It's cooler here, because I'm right beneath the open window. 

I drift off to sleep eventually. 

  
  


*******

  
  


I try to stop thinking about Baz, but it's impossible. Everywhere I go, there he is. Well, actually, there are the empty places where he's _supposed_ to be; like holes in fabric. 

He doesn't arrive late for the Art History class the next day, and he doesn't interrupt the teacher during her lecture on Soul Philosophy. 

He isn't there at the back of the classroom, tuning his violin during any of our shared classes. 

I'm starting to get too tense, pent up anxiety making my heart race every time a door opens. It's like I'm expecting him to jump me at any moment. Fuck, I can't believe I'm going to develop tachycardia because of _Baz_. 

And the prat isn't even here to acknowledge it. 

I just can't accept that he's not coming back. I _can't_. It's not possible. 

It's wrong.

That I am here, and Baz isn’t. 

It's not… well, I— 

I _do_ want to be here. But sometimes—and these are getting quite frequent—I'm not sure if I _should_ be here. 

While Baz, well… he's _Baz_. This is his _element_ —I have a theory that Baz learned how to play violin before he learned how to walk. And then, when he _did_ learn how to walk, his first steps lead to a perfect _grand jeté_.

He was top of our class almost every year since we were eleven, and a lot of people expect him to be the greatest artist of our generation. I think he's halfway there, being a bloody prodigy. 

Baz is like a fucking Gary Stu of the arts: he engaged in the school's chorus at twelve, and started playing violin in our orchestra the next year. It was theatre in fourth year, and ballet in fifth. 

(I try not to think about the bloody poetry. Of course he can do _poetry_ , too.) 

Everything he ever does is make Art. Well, that and drive me to insanity. 

At least he's still doing one of these things, even if he isn't here. 

Penelope already noticed how distressed I am—she's always the first to notice when something's wrong. (I don't know what I'd have done without her this summer). 

She's staring at me now, across the table, chewing distractedly as I pretend to be fully focused on my lunch. I can _feel_ her gaze over me—burning, unfaltering.

I grunt and give up, putting my plate aside to stare back at her. "What?" I ask over a mouthful. 

"You weren't paying attention to class today," Penny says, narrowing her eyes. I see Shepard tensing up beside her. "What is bothering you?" 

I gape at her. "I'm… nothing. I'm fine!" But I don't sound fine. I sound like a 5-year-old who knows he's about to get grounded. 

I can tell she wants to roll her eyes, but Penny doesn't break eye contact. (Seriously, no one beats her at staring contests. Not even Baz. It's her superpower.) 

"Simon, I don't know where your head has been, but I do know it's not _here_." 

I look for disappointment on her tone, but there's only concern. Which is even worse.

"I'm fine, okay? I'm just getting used to the routine. To being back." I look at the table, avoiding her eyes. (She's _still_ staring. _Christ.)_

She's right, though. Not even a week here, and I'm already falling behind the rest of the class. My fingers tense over the table. She reaches for them, touching my hand lightly. 

"Just tell me what's happening," she says, her voice soft. "... Simon?" 

"It's Baz, alright?" I snap. Her eyes roll so forcefully into her head I'm afraid her retina might get detached. 

"I don't believe it." She snaps back at me, ignoring Shep again when he touches her elbow. "Your life can't revolve around Baz, Simon." 

"Well, I don't know what you expect from me," I reply, and then I consider hitting my head on the table, because I practically admitted that my life _revolves around Baz_ . I grunt again. "I'm just—it makes no sense! _Why wouldn't he come back?_ "

"I don't know, and I don't care," Penny shrugs, avoiding my gaze. "If this is really about Baz, why don't you text him? Simple as that." 

"I don't even have his number!" 

Shepard frowns at me from the other side of the table. "You don't have your roommate's number?" 

"I _lived_ with him. Why would I need his number?" Besides, I wouldn't give Baz one more way to torment me. 

"Just ask Agatha, then," Penny says. I gape at her; the only thing that comes out is a huff of air. 

"You want me to ask _Agatha_ for Baz's number?" I'm shaking my head so hard it's making me dizzy. "I haven't been talking to her." 

Penny clasps a hand over her face, exasperated. "You haven't talked to her since the break up?"

I shrug. "I'm waiting for the right moment." I just... Don't know how to approach her. I don't even know _what_ we would talk about. "But I definitely won't start talking to her about _him."_

I look around the hall. Now, she sits with the dance students. Agatha seems to be comfortable among them; she _fits._ I keep looking at her for a moment.

"Simon, please." Penelope kicks my feet under the table, lightly, just to get my attention. "I only have three friends. What do I do if you two aren't even talking to each other?" 

"Fine. You win. I'll talk to her, but not today." _And not about Baz_ , I add mentally, crossing my arms with resolution. 

Penny sighs again. "Okay. Fine. Just… talk to her at some point." 

I nod, turning again to look at her. She's not looking at me. 

*******

Another week goes by, and Baz doesn't come back. 

I consider pushing the beds together, because having some more space would be nice, but I don't. That would be like admitting defeat. 

Instead, I just sit on his bed eating salt and vinegar crisps. It's his favorite; and besides, he _hates_ when people sit on his bed, and even more if they're eating. 

I don't know what I'm doing. Maybe I just like the idea of annoying him. Maybe I can summon him like this: wherever he is, whatever he's doing, Baz will sense I'm leaving crumbs all over his mattress. Then, the ground will split and he will rise up among flames just to scold me for it.

It doesn't work. 

I'm close to giving up by the end of the week. I'm tired of waiting for things to happen; sometimes it's like the world is in suspension. 

I just want to know what happens next, and I want to know everything _right at this moment._

It's Friday, and I'm not exactly sure what to do. I should talk to Miss Possibelf. I should talk to Penelope. 

(Or… I should go back to London.) 

(It would be easy, for sure. My things are still packed.) (No one would even notice.) 

I'm going back to my room after classes when I see Agatha running. 

Actually, she runs past me, and I think, _why not._

I guess I'm desperate enough at this point.

So I run after her. " _Hey_! AGATHA!" 

She slows down before Mummer's House, and I stop beside her, panting. 

"Agatha, what…" I don't think she was running _from_ me. (It's more like I've been avoiding her these past weeks.) 

She glances at me briefly, one hand flying to cover her mouth. Then, I follow her gaze. 

"What…" 

My voice dies in a breath. I can't believe my eyes. 

It's _him._

Baz Pitch is _back,_ but—wait.

My eyes scan him.

_There's something wrong_.

His gaze meets mine.

My mind can't process exactly what—it's not possible.

It's not _right._

Baz Pitch is standing right there, by the building entrance, talking to Miss Possibelf. 

But he isn't really _standing_ there. Not quite. 

He's holding himself up with the help of a pair of crutches. 

And his left leg is in a cast. 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sometimes, I look at Snow and wonder if this is what Longing feels like._
> 
> _It's certainly similar to the descriptions I've heard. The general consensus is that everyone Longs for a specific kind of Art—the one their soulmate practices._
> 
> _They say it's a pull. An urge. To look at the world and feel like there's something missing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a new chapter! I hope you enjoy 😄💖

_Art and love are the same thing: It’s the process of seeing yourself in things that are not you._ _—_ _Chuck Klosterman_

**Baz**

Miss Possibelf examines my medical record carefully, humming and lifting her eyes to smile at me from time to time. (I think she's trying to be reassuring. It isn't working, but I appreciate the effort.) 

"So, Basil." She sets my folder on the table, smiling kindly. "How are you feeling?" 

"Better, Miss Possibelf. My family took great care of me these past weeks." (This is true. Really, _really_ great care. My aunt Fiona wouldn't let me stand for more than fifteen minutes at once.) I push a small smile to my lips. "I feel refreshed. Ready to go back to my studies." 

She nods, clasping her hands over the table. "It's wonderful to hear that, Mr. Pitch." She talks smoothly, like I'm sleeping and she's afraid to wake me up to this terrible reality. 

I smirk at her and lower my gaze to my left leg. My skin itches beneath the rigid cast, and sometimes I can still feel my knee swollen. 

"I see here you have a busy physical therapy schedule, beginning in a couple of weeks," Miss Possibelf says, flipping through my record. "We'll do the best to follow the medical recommendations strictly. As for your classes, you're focused on dance, if I'm not mistaken." 

"Yes, that's right. I've been focusing on ballet classes since my sixth year." Now, though… 

Miss Possibelf sighs. "Well. I'm sure you'll be able to get back to it soon, Basil." She watches me carefully. _Soon._ I don't react. "But we need to figure out how to make things work this term." 

Possibelf is being optimistic, and I can't help the wave of annoyance that washes over me. My father consulted at least five specialists, and they all agreed that I'll need _at least_ six months to recover completely. 

I take a deep breath and try to relax.

"Right. So, what are my options?" 

"First of all, we need to change your schedule to match your medical appointments," she says, taking notes. "I'd like to have the contact of your orthopedist, as well as the contact of your physical therapist, if possible." 

"Of course," I say, reaching for the papers. "I figured you would need this information, Miss Possibelf. It's… here." 

She nods approvingly. "Excellent. Now, let's skip to the interesting part." Possibelf puts the papers aside and looks at me directly, her lips forming a resolute line, before speaking: "I can give you two options, Basil. As in the moment you're unable to keep up with your classes for this semester, at least in the subject of dance, you can either choose to change your major subject, or…" she takes a deep breath before dropping the bomb: "I was wondering if you would like to join a tutoring program of sorts." 

I frown at her. "But… well, I'm flattered, Miss Possibelf, but my education still isn't complete." _And besides_ , I add mentally, _this school doesn't even have a tutoring program._

"I'm aware of this, too, Basil. Don't worry. In case you're interested, it wouldn't take more than two periods a day, maximum two days per week," She says, raising eyebrows at _me_. "I believe you have this free time, now. Of course, you can use some of the periods to engage other classes of your interest, and some of them will be necessary for your physical therapy. Still…"

She looks at me expectantly as I think about it. 

I _do_ have a lot of vacant periods, considering most of my classes focused on physical activity on some level. I can take violin lessons, I could rejoin the chorus. _(Maybe—_ I don't think I'd get a warm reception.) And I'll need to go to physical therapy at least twice a week. 

Still, there are free periods. I look at Possibelf, considering the idea. 

"Who do you have in mind?" I ask.

"Well, I was thinking it could be someone from your year," she says, and I immediately open my mouth to object, but Miss Possibelf raises a hand to shut me up. "I don't expect you to _teach_ him, Basil. I was hoping you could encourage him—maybe guide him, help him find his calling." 

I blink at her, confused. At this point, practically everyone has already found their Art—I'm guessing this is what she means by _calling—,_ and I can't think of anyone who has taken this long to do so. It usually comes naturally, as most people are able to identify their Art during the first years of education. 

"Who is this student, then?" I ask, thinking about my classmates, and I can't help wrinkling my nose at the idea of having to work this closely to any of them. (I don't really have a lot of friends, and the ones who can put up with me wouldn't need this kind of assistance.) 

Miss Possibelf takes another deep breath, and then I understand—there comes the _real_ bomb, the nuclear one. 

"I was hoping you could tutor Simon Snow." 

*******

After talking to Possibelf, I head to the theatre building. I need space to think, time to process the conversation I've just had. 

I sit at the back of the auditorium, in the dark, reclining on my seat and closing my eyes. 

Everything here is familiar. The earliest memories I have are from this place: blurred images of my mother, dancing on this very stage, framed by the theatre's lights and lit by the bright colour of her own soul. I remember her passion. I remember the way she became one with the music. 

I feel my eyes prickle, no matter how hard I shut them. I guess there's no sense in trying to keep the tears back if no one's here to judge me. It's just… well. 

When I dance, I feel closer to my mother. Like she's there, somewhere in the crowd, watching me from the shadows and feeling proud of what I've become. 

Now, I've lost even that last scrap of connection to her. 

(It feels like losing her all over again.)

I feel the tears start to fall, slowly, salty. I take a deep breath and wipe my face. Then, I hear the music. 

I look around, feeling my walls come back up all at once. There's a faint melody coming from the back of the stage, probably from someone's phone. A silhouette walks from behind the curtains, taking place at the middle of the stage. She spins, graceful and familiar. 

Finally, the lights turn on, and I recognise her. 

Sometimes, Wellbelove moves like she's boneless. Like a bird, her chest full of air; like she weighs nothing. 

This isn't always clear to me because, usually, I'm her partner onstage, and we move on the same frequency then. But things are different looking from below, from the world beyond the lights and curtains. 

I watch her for a while, letting the music soothe me while I try to compose myself. I wait until the melody is over and she stops dancing; then, I start clapping. 

She turns, searching the empty rows of seats until her eyes fall on me.

I can see her frown turn into a smirk, though there's a sad edge to it. "I thought you'd be in the first row."

I shrug. "It wouldn't be as appropriate, I don't think." 

Agatha pulls a face and gets off the stage, walking in my direction. She stops at my row, but doesn't move to sit next to me. 

"You should have told me," Wellbelove says. 

"I said there was an accident. Football practice," I say, shrugging it off like it's nothing, and she shakes her head, disbelieving. 

"What happened, then? Did anyone hit you?" 

"I was just running. And I… well, I'd rather not talk about it."

The truth is that I really don't want to verbalize it. That's all it was, really: an accident. Nobody needs to know how careless I was; that I forced myself too much. I was running, running, I tried to take a turn too suddenly, and then— _snap_. 

I always imagined that, if something like that were to happen to me, it would be more dramatic. Maybe an accident on stage during my debut, something to be featured on newspapers' first pages during the following days. 

_Baz Pitch, a fallen star, cast in shadows by heartbreaking circumstances._

I didn't expect to end up covered in mud, on the pitch, with a bunch of blokes laughing at my face before they realised how serious the situation actually was. 

Agatha shrugs, though there's still an edge to her expression. "Is it broken?" 

"My leg is fine." I frown. "It's the knee. I tore the anterior ligament." 

She sighs heavily. "Did you need surgery?" 

I only nod. 

"How long until you recover?" 

"I… don't know. My doctor said about six months, but…" I bite my lower lip.

"Are you leaving the ballet, then?" She asks, stoically. (Agatha always is. Even more than me, I suspect.) 

"I'm not sure." I fidget with the hem of my shorts. (These are, perhaps, the most cursed outcome of this accident). 

This time, Wellbelove lets herself fall back on a seat with close to zero grace. She gives me a sideways glance.

"Who's going to dance with me, then?" Her lips tremble slightly, I can hear it on her voice. 

"I don't know, but I'm sure you'll find someone." 

Her eyes are shining, but she manages to smile a little. "No one as good as you, anyway." 

"Stop trying to make me feel better," I say, and I'm grinning, though I don't feel like it. 

"I'm not. I'm only worried about my performance." 

"You could do a solo." 

She shrugs again. "Maybe." 

We stay in silence for some time. I don't know what to say, and she probably doesn't know what to ask. (Though I bet she's itching to ask a hundred questions.) (Good friend, Agatha.)

I consider telling her about my conversation with Possibelf, but then Agatha blurts:

"I talked to Minty." 

My face softens instantly. "How did it go?"

Agatha bites her lip, seemingly hesitant, and I take the opportunity to pull her into a kind of hug—it's weird, with my leg propped up like this, and she's practically kneeling on the seat next to mine, but it's good. 

It's familiar to hold her, to know she trusts me like this. I can feel her body trembling a little—when I pull away, there's a tear running down her cheek. 

"Well, I think. I told her what I told you, about... you know. Being aromantic. I think we agreed on something," Agatha says, smiling softly, and she seems visibly lighter. Like a burden has been lifted from her shoulders. 

"That's really good, Aggie," I chuckle, squeezing her shoulder.

She nods, her smile almost shy. 

Agatha doesn't talk much about her soulmate, Minty. At least she hasn't recently. 

I don't know the details. All I know is that Agatha Touched her soulmate first, but didn't realise what happened until she felt the Touch. Minty didn't tell her. I don't know why, but that's between the two of them.

Soulmates can be tricky like that—you can go on your whole life knowing someone, and never realising _who_ they are. The connection is simultaneously deep and subtle, not to say abstract. The only way to know is to be Touched. 

And besides, it's hard to predict what will come of a relationship between soulmates. They can either be your best friend or your nemesis. The love of your life. Maybe all at once. 

The only certain thing is that, whoever they are, soulmates are always _there,_ close to each other. Your paths are entangled, always crossing one another throughout life. 

"Care to accompany me to dinner?" Wellbelove asks now, dropping the subject.

I push a smirk to my lips. "What else is a gentleman supposed to do?" 

I don't tell her about my stupid decision. Otherwise, she might punch some sense into my skull, and then I'll probably lose the little determination I have to do this. 

If I'm going to face Simon Snow, it's now or never. 

**Simon**

I keep turning to stare at Baz during dinner, and my neck is starting to hurt. I should've asked to switch seats with Shep, I know, but it'd have been too obvious.

(It's not like I'm fooling anyone, though. Subtlety was never my strong suit.) 

I've been staring at him since he entered the dining hall, Agatha by his side, chatting casually like everything's normal.

Because it _is,_ I suppose. At least, they're acting like it. Baz went straight to his usual table, sitting with some students from the dance and theatre clubs. 

I noticed everyone staring at him, and there was a soft murmur for a moment, while Baz crossed the room. The crutches, his leg, the fact that he's back after two weeks, and so on… 

I was about to get up and demand to know what happened to him, but Penny's glare practically glued me to the chair.

I'm trying not to stare at him too much, but it's like I can't tear my eyes away. He might vanish the moment I do. 

"Simon," Penny hisses, looking over my shoulder as soon as I turn again. "Can't you just let it go? Baz is back, good for him, and _what_ now?" 

"That's what I'm trying to figure out," I whisper, making a conscious effort to not look at him. 

To be honest, it's true. Baz is here, and what? That hardly cures my persistent lack of creativity. 

I sigh, turning to look at him again, but...

Baz isn't there. 

"Looking for someone, Snow?" 

I get to my feet in a jump, almost falling back from the chair. 

_"Baz,"_ I gasp, because of course he's right here. He smiles at me, smugly, leaning forward a little, and it takes me a moment to remember the crutches. "You… your _—how?"_

He raises an eyebrow, and a feeling of such familiarity overfloods me that for a moment it's like everything is in its rightful place. It doesn't matter that the world is upside down, not when Baz is here to sneer at me.

"Cat got your tongue, Snow?" 

"Hum! Uh, it's nothing. Forget it." 

I look at him nervously, trying to avoid glaring at the cast, and then I notice… no. No fucking way. 

Baz is wearing—

 _"Shorts?"_ I squeak.

"Well, yes, Snow. Did you expect me to tailor a cast-fitting pair of trousers?" He asks, skeptically. 

I might punch this prat. 

I open my mouth, probably about to say something stupid, but Penny beats me to it:

"What do you want?" She asks, her tone giving away just how annoyed she is. 

Baz spares her a quick glance, looking bored. He shifts on his feet (uh… _foot_ ) and I realise he must be getting uncomfortable, standing here like this. 

"Hey, dude, how about you sit down?" Shepard gets up and rounds the table, pulling a chair by my side. Penelope enters laser-eyes mode immediately, but he doesn't even blink. 

"Omaha. You're back," Baz says, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "I thought you'd already graduated." 

"Well, yeah, I did graduate." Shepard gives him his signature smile. "Now I'm here as part of an internship program. Also… that's not my surname, you know." 

"Really?" Baz tilts his head, cocky. "Isn't it what you go around telling people all the time?" 

"I guess you're right, yeah." Shep shrugs, then reaches forward to pat at Baz's shoulder. "But then, I think that makes you Mr. _Better than everyone else,_ right?" 

The look on Baz's face as Shep makes it back to his chair is totally priceless. Penny covers her mouth, though a snort of laughter escapes through her fingers anyway.

I just watch, half stunned, as Baz's smile becomes somewhat… genuine? 

"Well, you see," he shrugs, well-disposed, "I can either be honest or humble." 

He doesn't sit down, though. Instead, Baz goes back to ignoring Shep and Penny, focusing on me. 

"I need to talk to you." I frown, and for a moment I think I see something shadowing his eyes—like... uncertainty? 

"What? You mean, _now?"_ I look down at what's left of my dinner. 

"Not immediately," Baz concedes, rolling his eyes. "You can go back to stuffing your face with food, Snow. No problem." 

I huff, shaking my head, and Baz frowns at me. _Again._

"Let's go, then," I say, grabbing my bag. I feel determined for once, with his disdainful look challenging me. 

I know nothing has changed, though—I'm not having a sudden epiphany or a rush of inspiration. And even if that happened, it would be just to spite him.

*******

"So," I start, as Baz leans against the wall outside the dining hall, "what do you want?" 

"I'm going to be frank," He says, looking at me directly. The warm light coming from the windows casts funny shadows over his face. "Miss Possibelf told me you're struggling with your classes. She suggested I should… help you." 

I gape at him, baffled. "Are you fucking kidding me?" 

But Baz just frowns. "Well, no. She seemed genuinely concerned about your studies, so she asked if I could tutor you—" 

"Okay, it's fine, I got it," I cut him off, blood rushing to my face. "I'll just tell her that I don't need help, don't worry. You won't get stuck with me." 

"What?" 

I shrug. "It's fine. You want me to refuse, then I'll just do it. Fine?" 

I don't say that part aloud. I won't give him the satisfaction.

But Baz snorts and shakes his head.

"You didn't let me finish," He says, coldly. "I was going to say that I agreed with Possibelf. I was going to offer you help." 

"...What? _Why?"_

He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and shrugs. "Why not? I've got a few free periods now, and I wouldn't mind sharing some of my experience with someone in need. That is, if you're willing to accept it, of course." 

I shake my head. I laugh, incredulously. What else am I supposed to do? 

Baz Pitch, worried about my education. Baz Pitch, offering to _help me._

"What do you get out of it?" I ask. There's no way he's doing it just for the sake of helping me. Baz works his jaw, tensing. 

"I complete the minimum period schedule," he offers. 

I narrow my eyes at him. "So you're only doing this to fill the gaps in your schedule? Instead of taking classes?" 

"Well, partially. You know," Baz lifts his casted leg, "I can't take a lot of my usual classes because of this. Actually, I'll probably need to choose another subject to focus on this term, since dance is off the table."

I shake my head, slowly this time. I look at Baz, trying to read him. Which is especially hard. He was raised to be on stage; he's been a good actor since he got tall enough to look at himself in mirrors. You can never tell what he's feeling, apart from what he wants you to _think_ he's feeling.

(Well, that's true for most people. I know him too well. It's not easy, but sometimes I think I manage to peel off his mask, if only a little.) 

Now, though, I think… he's actually being sincere. For some reason.

It's hard to wrap my mind around the idea; him wanting to help me. Why now, after all these years provoking and taunting me? 

"Why do you care about my studies, anyway?" I ask, jutting my chin out. 

"I do care, you know," He says, bluntly. "We're not friends, so don't take this as a compliment, but I know how much you dedicate yourself to Art." 

I only gawk at him for a moment. "Cut that, Baz. You always said I'm mediocre at everything I try." 

He shrugs. "You should learn to appreciate a good provocation, Snow. Though you aren't quite the prodigy, I think your effort is worth something." 

I look at him. He looks at me and raises a perfect eyebrow, as if daring me to disagree. 

I shake my head. It makes _no_ sense. Baz isn't supposed to… encourage me. His role is to make my life more difficult. He always antagonizes everything I do. That's just how things are.

The Earth is round, the sky is blue, soulmates always find each other through their Art, and Baz Pitch hates my guts. 

Though I'm not so sure of… well, _two_ of these things anymore. 

I guess we've kind of… left each other alone, somehow. I can't remember the last time we got in a real fight, fists and bleeding noses and all. 

I look at him now, force myself to really take him in.

"What happened to you?" I ask, trying to sound firmer than I feel. 

Baz smirks, but I can see the glint in his eyes. Something like hurt blurring his sharp edges. "It was an accident. Playing football." 

"So you broke your leg?" I ask. 

He shakes his head, sighing. "I tore a knee ligament." 

"Fuck. Did it hurt?" 

Baz pouts. He usually pulls that face when something is annoying the hell out of him.

("Something" usually means _me.)_

So I'm kinda surprised when he looks at me and actually answers.

"It didn't hurt, not at the moment. It was the shock, I think. I just tried to walk and… my knee gave in. There was no blood, though. Just faltering." 

I nod, looking at the cast. "You… you know which one is our room, right?" 

Baz laughs, and it astounds me a little. "If you're trying to ask, Snow, the answer is yes. I'm aware we'll have to use the common showers." 

I notice how he grimaces at the thought, though, and it takes me some effort to repress a laugh. 

"What do you say, then?" He asks, holding out a hand. 

"Uh." I don't know if he expects me to shake it or bump his fist. I think the last time we did this was… seven years ago? 

(The shaking. I've never bumped Baz's fist. At least not in a friendly way.) 

He sighs, exasperatedly this time. 

"Yes or no, Snow?" 

"How do you intend to help me, anyway?" I ask, still not taking his hand. Still not entirely convinced this isn't a plot to get me kicked out of the school. (I guess it doesn't matter, anyway. I can walk out on my own.) 

"As I told you, I have a lot of experience. And besides," Baz takes his hand back, "I know a lot of people. If you're struggling to create, it could be helpful to get different advice. Or to… try new things, perhaps." 

I frown. I stutter. I scratch the back of my neck, muss my hair, because I'm not about to hold out a hand to him.

"Can I think about it? Just give me a day." 

"I have a free period on Monday," he says. "If you decide to accept, we can meet at the Lawn and… we'll see." 

Then, he sort of… nods to me and walks away. Probably going to our room. 

And now I really don't know what to do with myself. 

**Baz**

I can't believe I'm really going to do this. I can't believe Snow almost… _accepted_ it. Just like this. I mean, he still might, and I really hope he does, because… 

Why? 

_Because I can't bear to let him go._ That's it. I just can't let things end like this. 

I struggle to unpack my things. It's already difficult to move with the bloody crutches, and even more so in this narrow room. When my parents asked the school to move me to a new room—for my comfort, because of course a centenary building like Mummer's doesn't have a bloody lift—I didn't expect to be thrown here. (With Snow in tow, on top of everything.) 

Seriously, this place is a fucking _hole._

I don't fail to notice the unusual tidiness of Snow's part of the room. The mess of brushes and paint cans that usually resides on his desk is nowhere to be seen, and there are no crumpled sketches scattered around, like usual. His things are crowded in one corner, his side of the closet—empty. My heart sinks. It's like he's ready to leave at any moment.

I take a shower, and it's a special kind of hell. At least I manage to do it alone, well enough. My balance is perfect and my muscles are strong—all those years dedicated to ballet are really paying up. Still, the shower takes long enough that my fingertips are wrinkled when I come out and Snow is already asleep when I go back to our room. 

I sigh, sinking into my bed, and it feels like the springs are worn out. (For a moment I wonder if Snow slept here while I was gone, but I stop myself. These aren't healthy fantasies. The thought alone could make me combust.) 

Instead I lay on my side as best as I can, staring at him. My leg makes the position uncomfortable, but it's worth it, because the window is open and the faint moonlight washes over Snow's back. 

Over his _bare_ back, dotted with an abundance of freckles, scattered over his skin like stars in the sky. Looking at him never gets boring: he's like a breathing canvas, more colourful and full of undiscovered little details to admire every time I look at him. 

Looking at Simon is like looking at the sun after spending a long time in the dark—blinding, but also a relief. I can still see him when I blink, his lively colours burned behind my eyelids.

Even after all these years, he still manages to knock the breath out of me. There was a time when that effect was mostly physical—he'd back me against a wall, or push me to the ground, leaving me breathless and bruised. 

Now, though, just looking at him does it, and the bruises somehow feel _deeper._

I try to distract myself, to think about anything else but this, because I know it does me no good. To look at him, to want him like this. 

My mind wanders back to my conversation with Wellbelove, earlier—even though I feel genuinely happy for her, I can't help the bitterness tugging at my guts. A kind of jealousy. 

Sometimes, I look at Snow and wonder if this is what Longing feels like. 

It's certainly similar to the descriptions I've heard. The general consensus is that everyone Longs for a specific kind of Art—the one their soulmate practices. 

They say it's a pull. An urge. To look at the world and feel like there's something missing.

For example, when you listen to music and it feels familiar, though not quite there. Like a song you heard a long time ago, and you're almost expecting to hear someone else's voice behind the lyrics. 

Or if you long for painting, well—you look at these works and, even though you adore them, they still feel somewhat incomplete. It can be a small detail, or sometimes it feels like half the picture is missing. 

In general, the Longing tells people _where_ to look, even though they don't know _what_ they're looking for, exactly. 

Or at least that's what I've been told. 

Because I've never Longed for any kind of Art, so I don't actually know what it feels like. 

Still, I'm sure that if Simon Snow were a piece of art, I'd Long for him. 

(I already do. All the time. I'm not sure if there's room in me to want him any more). 

If Simon were a piece of art… 

But he isn't. He's just a boy. 

And I'm hopelessly in love with him. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to [Palimp](http://palimpsessed.tumblr.com) for looking over this chapter for me, and to [adamarks](http://adamarks.tumblr.com), for the suggestions and for helping me keep this story on track 💞💞💞  
> Come talk to me on Tumblr at [@nightimedreamersworld!](https://nightimedreamersworld.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! 😄💕  
> Title is from the song "Crystals", by Of Monsters and Men (of course).  
> If you're interested in knowing more about my writing process and projects, you can find me on Tumblr at [@nightimedreamersworld!](https://nightimedreamersworld.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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